Despair

man in black top sitting on bench beside of door
Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

 

I don’t see the point,
I don’t see progress.
All I see is failing and distress.

The path ahead
Is dark and endless.
I stumble, fall, the work is fruitless.

Where is this hope?
Where is this light?
Where is this future that was so bright?

I take one step,
and then another.
I must endure, the goal not farther.

 

 

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Why Read Poetry?

I’m rather curious as to why people read poetry. Is it for some reason or another?

I am personally perplexed with poetry. I seldom read poems, but when I do, it sometimes leave me more confused. It is probably the very art of this media that has left me with this feeling – that there is some hidden meaning behind the words that the author wished to impart when I read it.

However, I also understand that poetry can be a sort of outlet of the ideas and emotions of the author. They may not be necessarily crafted to directly convey such messages to its reader, but rather, coded in a way that there is mystery within the work.

I sometimes write poetry, but more of an expression of things, which I do not want to directly convey – which is easily done through prose.

However, it makes me wonder… why do people read poetry? Is there something that I am probably missing?

Is it for the story? There are indeed some poetic verses that convey a plot. I have studied a handful of these in school. Perhaps.

Is it for understanding the profoundness that the author wishes to impart? Well, perhaps. But does that mean that for this kind of purpose, the author must be known to the reader?

Is it for learning? Does reading poetry teaches us something? Does it impart wisdom upon us, in a similar way that prose does?

I’m actually curious, but personally,  I read poetry for the story, whether it is an explicit story that is being narrated, or an implied story that is being described.

Well, have a nice day.

Overcast

green tree under the grey and yellow sky
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Gone are the days of clear, blue sky,
The streets are wet, no longer dry.
Gray clouds hover above my head,
This melancholy slowly fed.

Quench the fires that kindled slow
Feel the breeze that slowly blow
A breath, a sigh, escapes my lips
As drizzles fall, on pavement drips.

Gone are days of blazing sky,
Here is when the summers die
As proud leaves bow, the heavens cry,
No one here but me and I.